


go mad by ricocheting

by Shenanigans



Series: There Are No Ordinary Cats [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Catwoman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, I just had to get this out of my head so I can focus, I just want Jason to have a good mom, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Jason Todd is Catlad | Stray, probably will end up continuing, unbetaed we die like robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25225024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shenanigans/pseuds/Shenanigans
Summary: Jason Todd is a street kid with nothing to lose, not anymore. Selina Kyle has a softness for strays.The continuing adventures of Jason Todd as Stray.
Series: There Are No Ordinary Cats [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044156
Comments: 43
Kudos: 300





	1. women and cats do as they please

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to end up with a cluster of au jason's in my head and I know that's my fate but whatever. I just couldn't get around the image of a fully competent fully confident Jason Todd raised by Selina Kyle and now I will inflict it on you all. Later bits will have the other boys, but this was the first thing that fell out of my head.
> 
> **edit** I've made a timeline and am going to label the years this takes place to help make it easier to understand (I hope)** More info about this at end of work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place in year 11. Jason is 16. It references the what if moment which happened in year 6 when Jason was 10/11.

The window being open was the only clue that her son had decided to skip school and Selina frowned as she dropped her keys into the cut crystal dish just inside the door and set her purse next to it. The lace curtains billowed, flicking moments of the fire escape where it was cluttered with cats and potted herbs, one folding chair and a line of christmas lights that wound lightly around the railing to where the cord disappeared into a box.

"We had a _deal_ , Jason."

" _You_ had a deal. _I_ had a moment of weakness," came the rumbling baritone as a bare foot lifted to quirk a hello in her direction. The large white cat on the back of the curved couch flicked green eyes open, watching her with disinterest before yawning widely- pink tongue lugubrious- and settled back down deeper into sleep. 

The living room was a scene of controlled chaos and mismatched furniture. She liked the Victorian sensibilities of wildly rich fabrics mixed with the littered cats, cut glass, small bits of dismantled jewelry, and books. The fireplace was caught between a set of handmade built-ins that Jason had started when he was fourteen. She liked them, liked the way they became more and more proficient as her gaze moved from the east to west side of the sprawling top floor apartment. They'd knocked down the wall between the den and the kitchen, opening the entire floor plan and leaving the two bathrooms and two bedrooms enclosed and private. The rest of the space they shared evenly with the cats, art, and jewels.

"What happens if you don't go to school?" She carried the groceries to the kitchen, setting them on the deeply divoted butcher block counter and gently turned away the newest fluff of orange when the marmalade jumped up to shove a round head into the cloth bags curiously. She continued to defend the produce from the onslaught.

She watched Jason's heel hook over the back of the couch, toes curling in thought. She could hear the turn of the page. "Truancy officers. But M-"

"Correct. And what do we say to the cops?"

"Fuck off?"

"Jason, no."

"Jason, _yes_." His head popped up and he grinned at her, crooked and breathtakingly charming under the mess of dark curls.

She'd taught him that smile. "Bastard child."

"Correct." He pointed at her with the book he'd been reading and flopped back, foot counting time as the older white tom didn't budge, simply continued to sleep next to his favored person. "Explain to me again, with small words, why I can't just take my GED?"

"Because, if you draw too much attention to yourself as anything other than a normal kid it draws attention to the after school activities?" She crossed on silent feet to tilt her head down at him where he was sprawled over the entire length of the couch. He'd grown again, shooting past her over the summer between fifteen and sixteen. He had his right foot pressed flat against the opposite arm from the one he'd piled with a few pillows and his wrist, arm quirked and leanly muscled. "Smaller?"

"Smaller," he agreed, not looking up and thumbing the page with a faux casual gesture.

"Because, I said so?" She loved when he blushed, enjoying the attention even when he couldn't admit it aloud. "Too typical?" 

"Practically Rockwellian, Miss Kyle."

She dropped a hand, scratching into the tangle of his curls with a fond smile. "C'mon, kiddo. I brought you something. Might as well get started early."

This time the large white cat did move, wobbling in protest as the couch rocked as Jason rocketed to his feet, vaulting the back and standing lightly in front of her, the perfect picture of innocent readiness. The joggers were shoved high on one calf like he'd been scratching absently at it and forgotten to move it back, plain white t-shirt part of the cheap packs of matching tagless Hanes he preferred. She reached out to pluck a few of the black cat hairs from his shoulder with a shake of her head.

"You could at least pretend like you didn't know what I was bringing home today," she muttered, swatting at him and sauntering back to the kitchen. She couldn't hear him following her, but that wasn't new.

The kid had always been able to move quietly, full of a calculating sort of intelligence that this neighborhood either twisted or murdered before it could bloom. She recognized the kind of care that came with that sort of careful tread and had simply started sitting in easy view those first few weeks after she'd brought him home.

"No, no, Kitten," she'd whispered, snagging the small boy by the back of a ragged collar when he'd started creeping forward out of the shadows in Crime Alley with a gleam of purpose in his eyes.

He'd kicked her, startlingly strong and determinedly violent for such a scrawny package. She'd kept a hand on him, blocking and twisting until she'd managed one quick smack to his forehead, startling him to blink up at her in absolute betrayal.

"Did you just fuckin' flick me, lady?" he'd kept the question hissed and subvocal, aware even in his blatant shock that they needed to stay silent this close to the Bat.

"I would spray you but I left my bottle at home, Kitten," she'd replied in the same low tone, holding his eyes as she kept an ear out for the feel of where Batman would loom from a shadow. "You do not want to steal-"

His freckled face had screwed up as he took a deep breath to argue and she had pressed one sharp tipped claw to hush him.

"You may _want_ to," she had continued, cutting off the argument and starting to slowly back them into the shadows, away from the gleaming black vehicle that crouched waiting for its master. She had known what tonight was. She’d known how important it was. The Bat wouldn't take kindly to any interruption. "But not _tonight_. Trust me."

It had been a small breathless moment, like the clouds had decided in tune with fate to come sliding away from the light of the moon, but she'd seen it. For a bright hot second of recognition the boy had looked desperate and despairing before the look had folded into a defiant snarl and the gloom settled low again in the streets of Gotham.

Selina had known that look, had seen it in the fat bellied, bony bits of feral fluff covered in mange and garbage in alleys that either died or grew into the slinky violent ferals that would stand strong against raccoons or worse, the humans who went looking for something smaller to hurt. She had known the way there was a second of desperation before the kittens would swell and hiss, spitting at her even as she held out a bit of soft wet food on the tip of a finger for them. 

The boy was dying, bony and brittle edged, worn sharp and wary in the way only Gotham could hone a child. His pants had been held up with a too big belt that had a few extra mismatched holes poked into the leather, shoes taped over the toe, and hair cut in a uniform length like he'd simply just run clippers over his head, one small tufted ridge just behind a dirty ear.

The problem had been that the kid was beautiful; beautiful things didn't last on the streets.

"Come on," she had said, deciding before she'd even let herself think about it. She had remembered being beautiful on these streets. She had remembered the taste of it. "Come with me or deal with him." She had sniffed, lifting a hand and inspecting the claws on her glove before flicking her gaze to him. "Unless you don't think you can keep up?"

Jason still couldn't resist a dare.

Jason bent to kiss her temple as he slid past her, reaching for the bag on the butcher's block with nimble fingers. "We can pretend if it makes it easier," he told her, pushing past the fresh peppers and the bag of small tangerines that he would eat all in one sitting, a pile of skins on a plate and fingers stained orange. 

It was incredible the amount of food he could put away and she'd tried to cook once, sinking back into the counter as he glared at her, standing on the counter with the disabled guts of the smoke alarm twirling in the breeze of him fanning the smoke out the kitchen windows with a baking pan. The cats had fled at the stunning blip of noise when the pot she'd been using to boil spaghetti caught fire and smoked angrily. He'd taken over the kitchen at twelve and she'd realized he wasn't going to leave, that she didn't want him to leave, the same night.

He crowed in delight at the small bag in the bottom, hooking it open with his thumbs and touching his tongue to the point of a canine as he tilted his head at the cluster of jewels. "Next time I wan-"

"You can come on any job but the ones in that territory." She grabbed the bag of peppers and moved to start unloading the actual groceries into the pistachio colored fridge covered in report cards drizzled in perfect scores. Her kid was fucking smart.

" _Fine_." He dumped the score in his broad palm, the emeralds catching the light and somehow picking the reddish auburn tones from his dark hair. "How long do we have to fence?"

"They were setting up to ship them out by the fifteenth." She snagged a bottle of white from the door and plucked the cork to take a sip directly from the bottle. "So..."

"Six days," he rumbled, already flipping through the cut stones and pausing on one to peer at. "We can do that."

"You can do that," she told him and he blinked, turning to look at her with the soft hopeful smile she'd never been immune to.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. This one is you, love."

He took the time to pour the stones back in the bag, tying it back and setting it down on the block before scooping her up easily and spinning her around the kitchen with a laugh. She snorted, scrambling to hold on and curl slightly to not accidentally smack into the cabinetry. He'd replaced all the doors with glass fronts and glared at her any time she tried to slip something into them where it didn't belong. Their shared space was a war of her more indiscriminate style of organization, clustering things in types and colors while his room was a regimented tangle of male aesthetic and carefully organized tools displayed over his workbench that doubled as his study area.

"You won't regret it."

She was set back down and she sighed, cupping his face in her palms and touched their noses in a light brush. "Never could."

Jason hid his blush by pulling her easily into a quick hug and tucking his face against her short black hair. "Thanks, Mom."


	2. no cat anywhere ever gave anyone a straight answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason steals things. Sometimes, he doesn't mean to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has art! (watch me slowly implode with giddiness like an undercooked souffle!) by the irrepressibly cool and delightful @hamjay! [Go give them love.](https://hamjay.tumblr.com/post/631011837179248640/show-chapter-archive)
> 
> This chapter spans several years:   
> The pink suit gala takes place in year 13. Jason is 18, Tim is 16, Dick is 23.  
> The first gala takes place in year 7.  
> The Nightwing Moment happens earlier in year 13.  
> Backstory with Selina and young Jason takes place over the course of year 6 to 7. Jason was on the streets year 5 into 6.

“Should have let me wear the suit,” Jason whispered, tilting his head slightly towards where Selina was three inches taller than normal in sleek expensive heels. He could feel the slight tickle of her hair where it was styled into a pretty pixie.

“You _are_ wearing the suit,” she replied, mouth hidden behind a cut crystal champagne coup glass that she plucked tidily from the passing silver platters.

“The _other_ suit,” Jason grumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks instead of reaching for the antique clasp of a stunning Hermes bracelet as it waved past him on the arm of a woman gone regal and silvered with age.

“No way, Tiger.” She’d patted his stomach and grinned up at him, sharp and decidedly feline. “We aren’t mixing business with pleasure tonight.”

“You aren’t-”

“Just pleasure then?” asked a mild baritone from Jason’s left. He scowled at the tips of his shoes before slanting Bruce Wayne an unimpressed look. The man didn’t even blink from the scowl, just gave Selina a soft smile and held out a hand. “If you’ll allow it.”

“Gross. You two are gross.” 

Selina laughed, moving to slip her hand between the waist of Bruce Wayne’s jacket and his shirt, looking at him like he was edible. “Convince me.”

The party was a spectacular affair of decadence and excess; Jason hated almost every moment of it. Wayne galas were a seasonal event that he’d managed to avoid for most of his life after the first, but this time he had a reason to be here. He let himself smile, working his way through the crowd and taking in the old moneyed opulence of Wayne Manor in full regalia. The high ceiling of the formal ballroom was a dome of patterned glass over the perfectly polished parquet floor that swept outwards to a solid curved wall that opened to the gardens in better weather, but in winter frosted and glittered beautifully. The manor was the sort of wealth that seeped into a person's skin, staining them with a casual entitlement. The dance floor was filled with elegant black suits and elegant black dresses and elegant polished people. The ballroom didn’t need much to be breathtaking, but was decorated with tasteful silver and white embellishments that made the entire affair seem monochrome and vintage - a step backwards in time to the black and white photos of the past.

The ballroom itself was massive, large enough to accommodate the two hundred guests, capped with two sets of double doors at each end and a wide double staircase that curved languidly around the edges of the space to lead the idle rich to the second level that held the open bar and the endless parade of petit fours. Jason preferred the east end corner just before a door that would lead to a greenroom filled with gardening supplies and exotic orchids. He half hid in the small set of unused balustrades that had held statuary once, but now simply afforded him a space to lean a broad shoulder into the polished wood and mirrors to watch.

Selina was tucked into the wide hands of Bruce Wayne, smiling into the side of his neck where he couldn't see. The big man moved gracefully, nose tucked into his mom's curls. Jason wanted to be happy for her. He wanted to say they looked lovely, folded into each other like a letter into an envelope - held and secret.

She'd been chewing on the edge of her thumb earlier that night when he'd plopped her down on the toilet seat in their master bath, tipping her chin up with two fingers and eyeing her face critically. She’d frowned around a cuticle at him. "What?"

"We were doing smokey eyes. You gonna be emotional tonight, Mom?" Jason had turned after he’d asked, reaching to pull the makeup case out from under the sink and flipping the lid open as she thought. He had been offering her an out even as he dug for the primer. He’d learned how to pretend everything was okay while he was bleeding for Catherine’s sake. He’d learned how to pretend he wasn’t huddled under the kitchen table with hands over his ears while she screamed. He’d learned that the men who hit her, hit him _harder_. 

Selina taught him how to stand his ground and _win_. Selina taught him to look out for himself because no one else could.

Selina wasn’t Catherine, but the last time she’d come home from meeting with the Bat she had curled behind Jason on the couch and hidden her tears in his shoulder. 

“Do you want-?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he had whispered, letting her slowly shift around him until he could hold her with his chin over her head and her tears in his shirt. She didn’t cry often and even more rarely where he could see it. He ducked his mouth against her dark curls, the same dark curls that had made people believe him when he called her Mom. “I would.”

“I know, Tiger. I know.” 

He’d carried her to bed, tucked into the thick velvet covered comforter and piles of soft pillows. The cats had settled, one at the curve of her waist, another curled at the back of her neck, another at the bend of her knee. He kissed her temple and pushed up on straight arms, glancing around before setting his jaw. He couldn’t fix a broken heart, but he did know what would make her feel better.

She’d waltzed home the next evening with a spectacular necklace nearly effervescent with pink diamonds and a level of decadence that she casually draped over her neck as she arched a brow at him. He hadn’t had to say anything, ears going hot at the way she just hugged him tighter.

"Fuck him," Selina had answered after a moment that Jason used to dab the primer under her eyes with a delicate touch.

She was a slim, beautiful woman with scars that ran deeper than the ones visible across her delicate knuckles. Sometimes, she would let him see her as just a woman in love, and he would swallow around the sharp feel in his throat at how breakable she would seem in those memories. She had started cutting her hair short when they'd changed costumes, keeping the black curls caught tight under the cowl, but loose they simply caught the light and set a texture and angle that offset the soft heart shape of her face, the sulky weight of her mouth, and the wide, incredible green of her eyes.

"Fuck that guy," he’d agreed, letting her smile up at him, and matched it with the sly determined reflection he'd learned from her.

**

The first night she'd brought him to her apartment he'd eaten the sandwich she'd set in front of him without ever taking his eyes off of her. She had been leaning against the counters with her arms crossed, watching him with the hood of her costume pushed off of her head and puddled under the weight of her long black curls. She'd watched him with the same frank consideration that he handed right back to her. She'd finally poured him a glass of water from the tap and pushed an already open package of store bought Oreos across the table and turned, pulling the zipper of that original purple and black costume. He'd ducked his eyes at the flicker of lace bra and shoved three in his mouth and four in his pocket. 

"Okay Kitten, you can crash on the couch tonight.” She’d been in the other room, voice carrying around the corner like it was following the slinky stride of a tabby cat that paused to watch Jason from the entrance to the kitchen. “I'll figure out what to do with you in the morning."

She’d bundled him into the couch, dropping pillow after pillow while Jason shifted warily from foot to foot and kept his hands in his pockets. She’d scratched a black cat with half an ear missing under the jaw and nodded at him before pacing silently out of the room. He had been alone with the cookies, the cats, and the creeping terror of wanting something he’d never be allowed to have. He’d waited until the city had exhaled and gone almost quiet, the strange near twilight hours when the cold settled heavy under the haze and even the drunks muttered into sleep.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jason had growled at the fluff of white kitten that had given up trying to climb onto his shoulder and decided instead to attack the lace drapes. It was shaking its small paw furiously, caught by a claw. He’d bent, unhooking it from the fabric and making a face when it batted at him and puffed threateningly. “I can take care of myself just fine.”

Jason had crept out the open window and pelted breathlessly back to the small hidden crawlspace he was living out of in the abandoned building off of Park Row. He’d bolted before Selina had woken up. The small space had four folded blankets, his backpack stuffed with clothes, a small styrofoam cooler, and a ratty store bought quilt. He’d pulled all the pictures out of the frames before they changed the locks, tucking them into the battered poetry anthology Catherine had given him for Christmas that year. 

“Oh, little one,” she’d whispered, lips cracking as she blinked slow and tired. She had needed to sleep on her side, head against his hip as Jason read against the wall that acted as her headboard. “To love like that. That’d really be somethin’, huh?”

Catherine Todd had been a soft woman with lank brown hair who bruised easily. She’d tuck Jason against her side on the couch, just open her arms and fold him to rest. She’d gone paper thin and hot to the touch, swollen at the ankles and wrists. She had given him watery smiles around red eyes, whispered words of what a good boy he was when he wiped her face with a wet dishcloth. Now, she was just a memory tucked into the pages that he rubbed against his nose, eyes closed.

“How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face,” he had whispered when he curled into the small dry space. It used to smell like her perfume. Now it just smelled like his hair and the round loamy smell of old bread. He had let himself miss her with his eyes closed. 

“Still wouldn’t be enough, Ma.” He knew better now: life was about what he took and what was taken from him. That day he hadn’t answered her in time; she had always been so tired at the end, falling asleep between the question and the hand he’d tucked into her hair.

He touched the cookies in his pocket, saving them to savor after he made some money tomorrow. They would be almost as good as gum. 

**

Selina found him again three weeks later when he’d leaned into a soft streetlight near a dark corner, sullen and sulky between tense shoulders. He didn’t say no when she offered him another sandwich. It was better than what he had to offer anyone else. He’d always hated the way certain people looked at him. 

“I’ll make it,” he’d said, voice wary as he watched her, hands shoved into his pockets to finger the small knife he’d stashed there. “You almost burned the toast.”

“Careful, Kitten,” Selina had smiled at him, giving him something easy and warm in the shadows. “I might keep you if you cook, too.”

**

“I want to do what you do,” Jason had told Selina seriously as she took a bite of the omelet he’d made her. She’d gotten him a step stool he refused to use and a set of nice skillets. He’d stolen the apron from the back dock of a fancy italian restaurant just before the bridge to where the rich people lived. He had liked it, kept it clean and white, crisp as the day he’d snatched it.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Selina had answered once she swallowed. She’d tied her hair back in a sloppy ponytail and he could see her tits through the too big overly thin white shirt she was wearing. She never had time for modesty and Jason had learned to live with it. She had one long bare leg tucked up, heel on the seat of the kitchen chair. He had been grateful for the pair of boxers she’d stolen from someone, the elastic folded over and settled low on her hips. She had looked like a rockstar, one shoulder bare. 

“I want to steal shit from those fucks,” he’d answered, pulling himself up to his full height and inhaling to make himself seem bigger. “I can watch your back.”

“Is that so?” she’d asked, one eyebrow arched as she had kept her face carefully blank. 

“Someone has to,” Jason had grumbled.

Selina had looked at him then, an appraising sweep of her green eyes, last night’s eyeliner smudged and flaking. She had an effortless cool that Jason found himself trying to copy in the mirror. He would tilt his head and feel out the edge of his smile until it unfurled into the wicked smirk. He’d lower his eyelids and look from under his lashes even as he looked down the line of his nose. He had been working on looking older, looking like he was worth something. He canted a hip and then straightened, frowning at the sex of it before shaking his head and trying again. He had wanted to look like a knife, something that would cut. 

“Not yet, Kitten.” 

That night he’d waited up for her, standing on the edge of the rooftop and flinging the loose gravel that wasn’t melted into the black tar at the opposite building. She’d landed lightly, tilting her head at him. 

“Soon?”

“Maybe.”

Two weeks later, she found him waiting outside the bank for her, wearing a black hoodie and dark jeans that he’d stolen from her closet. He had a pair of huge black sunglasses shoved up into his curls. He’d needed a haircut, but she’d just frowned at him and sighed, turning him with a clawed hand to the top of his head and started running for the ledge- leaping into the night as he followed. The week after that she had found him following her as she scaled the marbled facade of the art museum. Two days later, he’d been standing over the crumpled body of one of Cobblepot’s goons, a broken slat of a pallet in his hands.

“Is he dead?” he’d asked, chewing back the way his voice had shaken, chest heaving as he panted wide eyed at her in the alley. “He was going to hurt you.”

“Go home, Kitten.”

She’d crawled in the window that night, the only light the flickering black and white glow of an old movie on the small tv set in the living room. Jason had been tucked into the corner of the couch, watching her instead of the car chase that was occurring on set. 

“Did I kill him?” Jason had asked, sounding his age. He’d had his wiry arms wrapped around the fat gray tabby who was drooling contentedly onto his chest.

“No,” she’d answered, watching him. He’d watched her back as she pushed the cowl from her hair, scratching at the curls where they were caught sweat damp and tangled around her scalp. He’d watched, wanting to help. She had just crossed the room, plucked the fat cat from his arms, and pulled him into a hug. She had smelled like Shalimar and gunsmoke under the salt sweat of her suit.

Two weeks later he’d launched himself from the fire escape, screaming at where the Bat had her pinned to the wall. 

“Run!” He’d clocked the masked man once, enraged at the way Selina had made a soft hurt sounding noise, caught against the brick. He remembers the way the Bat had barely moved, still and startled behind the mask. Jason had ducked the hand that reached for him, bullying forward to batter at the solid weight of the man behind the cape. It had felt like hitting a wall. It hadn’t stopped him. “You leave her alone! What the fuck is wrong with you? You don’t hit girls! You don’t hit people that are littler!” He’d spit at the man when he felt himself being lifted right off his feet. He’d kicked and twisted, fighting- always fighting. “You _fuck_! You fucking fuck you leave her be!”

“Kitten, no!” Selina had yelled when he’d lifted his arms and dropped out of the hoodie the Bat had grabbed, launching himself at the terrifying mass of muscle again.

“Selina?” The bass growl of it had sounded almost human, sounded confused and concerned as he’d caught Jason’s wrist and pulled him into a careful disarming hold. “What?”

“Go home,” Selina had sighed, voice reluctant and fond. Jason had snarled, shaking and angry, hurt and embarrassed where he was caught and held. “Kitten. _Kitten_ , look at me. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Jason had snarled into a confused noise, whining it at her even as the Bat let him go and disappeared with a soft flap of something darker than leather. “He was-? He was- he was hurting you? Right? Men shouldn’t touch people that don’t want it. It’s wrong. You know it’s wrong.”

“Oh, Kitten,” she’d sighed, cupping his face and pulling him to her. That night she’d let him clamber onto the counter, watching her in utter disbelief as she explained sex to him. She’d explained consent. He’d thought of the men that had known Catherine. He had thought of the men he’d known. He’d thought of it all and stared suspiciously at her when she’d explained that it could be something safe and warm and good. That it could be _good_. He’d still been shaking when she tucked him into her bed that night, curled around his back and holding him tightly until his breathing went soft and slow with sleep. 

She’d pulled him off the couch and onto the floor the next evening after dinner. They’d left the popcorn behind as she started doing push-ups. It had been a promise. Jason had taken it as permission and started mimicking her with a determined care.

**

“Hey! I heard about you!” He’d been approached at his first Wayne gala by a boy with thick black hair, a dusky tan, and sleepy blue eyes that glittered where he was smirking at Jason in the chaos of the gala. Jason had curled his fingers into fists, narrowing his eyes at the taller boy suspiciously. “You’re here with Selina, right?”

“Yeah.” Jason had shifted, watching the other boy carefully. He was older, rangy and starting to gangle into a polished sort of handsome - tall and athletic with a toothpaste commercial smile. Jason had felt out of place and awkward in the borrowed suit and hard bottomed shoes. He hadn’t known what to do with his hands; he didn’t know how to smile with his whole body on command. 

“She’s cool.” The older boy had held out a hand. “I’m Dick.”

“Okay.” Jason had been wary, wetting his lips and looking around the crowd, picking Selina out easily where she had her dark curls piled on top of her head in an artful tumble, pale shoulders bare in a black dress that was heavily beaded and glittered in the soft amber light. 

“I almost didn’t recognize her, you know,” the older boy had continued, his smile going sly when Jason’s eyes flicked back to him. “She’s not usually so... dressed.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Jason had turned, face going hot with a fluff of anger. 

“Woah, woah.” The boy had laughed, head tipping back as if they were sharing some joke and not the insult flung so casually at the only woman since his mom that had been kind to him. “Oh, you know what I mean. We both know she can’t afford that necklace witho-”

Jason had been standing in place for a breath and then his hand hurt and he was snarling mad. He’d snapped the punch without considering anything other than the smug look on the boy’s face. He was sick of smug. He was sick of people thinking they were better just because they had money. He was sick of the implications. He was tired of not being seen as human, just a bit of flesh and he didn’t have to be good for his mom anymore. He had already lost everything. All that was left was his pride. 

And Selina.

“What the fu-?” the boy had spluttered, hand over his nose and blood on his lip, on Jason’s knuckles. “You broke my nose?”

“You deserved it,” was all Jason had been able to say before the party stilled, the party noticed, and the crowd had started to move to help the bleeding boy. In a fight or flight world, Jason punched first. It was what kept him alive. His ability to cut and run a close second.

He had ricocheted through the crowd, the mass of people seemed to pull close and move as a shift of tides to reach for the kid he'd hit. He’d ducked under an arm, twirled nimbly around a reaching hand, snagging the gold watch on instinct, and then slipped to hit a quick baseball slide under the last person who was reaching for him. He’d kicked up, darted out and hit a sprint until he'd managed to escape the ballroom and the press of wealth to duck into the first unlocked door and slammed it shut, panting.

"Go away."

Jason hadn’t been able to swallow the startled yelp that accompanied the way he’d spun, slipped on the starchy hard soles of his dress shoes. He had fallen and cracked his head on the door as he lost his balance. "Fuck!"

He’d stared at the dark ceiling, letting the frustration well in his chest painfully for three breaths before scrubbing at his eyes and sitting up. There had been a kid on the couch in the dark room, just a pale face filled with huge blue eyes and slicked back black hair that was scrubbed up in the front like he'd been tugging at it. The kid had been staring over the back of the couch at him, lit feebly by an electronic glow. 

"I said go away. You aren't supposed to be in here."

"Gonna be a little bitch, Snitch? I'll cut you."

The kid had blinked once, a small crease pulling between his dark eyebrows as he ducked low enough to hide everything but his eyes and the top of his head. The kid looked expensive, delicate and carefully styled. Jason had thought that the street would have eaten this kid alive. The pretty ones didn’t last long. "No, you won't." 

"You don't know nothin' 'bout me. I _could_."

"No. You're already in trouble and you're scared. That would get you in more trouble than being in here."

"Shut up."

The kid had huffed a noise that sounded entirely too adult for his small frame and ducked down again, the soft music of a video game unpausing. "Fine. You can hide in here. I won't tell."

"I gotta do anything?"

"You don't have anything I want." He’d heard the creaking groan of leather and looked around, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, and realized he was in a large book filled room that surrounded two long leather couches and four high backed chairs. The far wall had no shelves, just the faint outline of heavy drapes that were pulled closed. The only light had been coming from under the door, around the edges of the curtains, and the flashing glow of the game in the kid's hands.

Jason had pushed to his feet, wincing and flexing his fingers before wandering over to peer at the game in the boy’s hands. He’d been small, but he was nimble and flashing through the buttons faster than Jason had been able to follow. "What're you doing?"

The kid had flicked a pause button and turned to give Jason what could have been a smile if it was allowed to grow. "Hiding."

**

“You behaving yourself?” Tim Drake settled next to him in the corner of the ballroom, watching the swaying dancers rather than Jason. He had years of learning that Tim showed up exactly when he meant to and not a moment before. He had a knack for anonymity.

"Was that a question or an order? I'm confused," he told the younger teen, slanting his eyes down at him and tilting a heavy eyebrow. He rolled his shoulders, testing the line of the new suit and smiling at the shift of the heavy brocade. 

"It wouldn't have to be either if you could be trusted to not break any billionaire's noses." He knew Tim was chewing back the inside of the sharp smile and he closed his eyes on a soft hum that rumbled in his throat like a purr.

"Ruin my fun."

"Consider me looking out for that suit. Damn, Jay." Tim Drake was his first society friend and was in an understated clean line suit that allowed him to blend effortlessly into the crowd. Jason would shove a wild colored pocket square into his suit pocket when he wasn’t looking, but Tim was always looking. "I approve."

Jason’s suit was a dusty pink and delicate black brocade silk with thin satin-edged lapels and black pocket square. He'd bypassed most of the buttons on the thin fitted suit shirt, letting his skin be all the temptation to touch. It was loud and flashy, but a stylish feminine that only a few men could pull off. It radiated invitation and thoughtless sexuality. He ran his fingers through his wild dark curls and winked. "The best distraction is the one you don't have to do anything to use, right? Rule one."

"Sexuality as aggression to deflect from the inherent vulnerability of being seen," Tim agreed. 

“Who let you into the psychology manuals again?” Jason quirked his friend a wry grin, letting his eyes flick over Tim’s suit, noting the clean lines at odds with the nearly sloppy way he’d pulled his longer black hair back into a half bun. “I thought we agreed that was a no-no.”

“You made a blanket statement and simply assumed I would agree,” Tim informed him around a small sip of illicit champagne before flicking his grey-blue eyes up at him. “It’s not my fault you default to believing my silence is assent.”

“You sayin’ you wanna get noisy, Timmers?”

“You are an ass and I don’t know why I put up with you,” Tim muttered, turning away and staring out over the crowd without moving from where he leaned. 

“I thought we covered my suit. Do you need a closer loo-?”

Tim didn’t even look at where Jason was talking, just smacked a hand over his mouth to silence him. “That was rhetorical.” There was a beat before Tim continued without looking, voice sharp. "Don't lick me. That's gross."

Jason closed his mouth and pulled Tim's hand away. “So you say.”

There was a swell in the music and Jason glanced to the band before turning back to the crowd, eyes picking out Selina's slim figure with ease. His mom was stunning, draped in a black velvet dress that ate the light, pulling the edges of her into sharp matte relief. He knew the painting she’d pulled inspiration from - the woman a pale striking figure framed in silhouette. Jason liked it because the painted woman wasn’t beautiful, but she wouldn’t be forgotten. Selina was smiling at Bruce Wayne, one of the real ones, and Jason looked down, wishing he'd brought a pack of cigarettes so he had a reason to duck out of the ballroom, out through the green house, and out into the cool night air. He liked the grounds, but he had a purpose and he nodded once, glancing at where Tim was letting his gaze linger on the groups of people nearby like he wasn't actively planning shenanigans. 

"It's time."

"Yeah?"

Jason rolled his shoulders and kicked out of the lean, wetting his lips and turning to walk backwards a few steps, pointing at Tim seriously. "Don't let me down. I'd hate to have to replace you."

"When have I ever let you down?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"I'll only need five." Tim's smile was like a knife blade, sharp and hidden until it flicked out to glitter dangerously where it was pointed.

**

“Here kitty kitty,” called a low voice that hovered between a rasping tenor and a husky baritone. Jason rolled his eyes behind the goggles, easing his weight onto the balls of his feet as he continued to turn the dial on the safe. He liked the rich that went old school, bypassing the digital randomization for the more traditional spin of a tumbler. “What’re you doing in my city?”

Nightwing was peering in the window he’d cut a hole into, black hair waving in the breeze twenty two stories up. The older boy was upside down, gripping a line between both hands and smirking at the dark where Jason was hidden. He looked ridiculous, red faced with the bright smile determined even as he was hanging straight down. 

“New suit?” Jason asked from where he was paused in the dark. He almost missed the green panties and the long tanned skin of those thighs pebbling in the cold.

“I can see you, you know,” Nightwing said after a minute when it became clear that Jason wasn’t going to stop what he was doing to let him in.

Jason didn’t bother to turn his head, just kept focusing on the soft sound of the dial moving- the careful tick of it like an engine cooling in winter air. He didn’t have time for Nightwing, not tonight. He didn’t want a fight, just wanted the necklace that was just behind the door of this safe.

“You want me to break your nose again?” Jason had sighed finally, leaning back and shifting to watch the other man climb in the window. He moved like he had no bones, twisting from being upside down to ooze into the space and land like he wanted to throw his hands up in a showy dismount.

“Promises.” Nightwing shrugged and Jason waited. The older boy couldn’t stay still and hated silence- Jason had learned to wait him out. “What’re you doing?”

“Is this a rhetorical question?” Jason cocked his head and waved a clawed hand around the room even as he twisted back to the safe.

“Only if you don’t answer,” Nightwing had answered, blowing out a breath and hopping gamely down from the window sill to scamper across the room. He flung himself down on the floor, sighing heavily and looked over at where Jason was working. “Are you going to answer?”

“Do I really need to? You talk enough for the both of us, don’t ya?”

Nightwing grinned, magazine ad pretty and pushed a hand through his hair, the black waves flopping back around his face. “Is it for your Mom?”

“See,” Jason grumbled, putting the mic back against the safe and tucking the earbud back into his ear. “You didn’t need me to answer at all.”

“It’s flashy,” Nightwing said and Jason could feel his eyes on him, feel the way the other teen was letting himself look.

“Take a picture, Boy Wonder,” Jason snarled, moving in a quick shove to press into his space. This close he could feel the way the boy’s breath hitched and broke hot over his mouth. “You can make it last then.”

“I don’t want to fight tonight, okay?” He’d sighed and Jason knew he’d closed his eyes behind the mask, the way his head tilted back and he went a little loose, relaxed. “I’m not Robin anymore.”

“What do you want, then? You came to me.”

“Cookies,” Nightwing replied, voice firm. “I miss the cookies.”

Jason didn’t say anything. He knew what it was like to miss home.

**

"I want to make a splash," he'd told Selina before the gala, the fabric for his suit draped over a shoulder as he looked at her reflection in the paneled mirror in the tailor's shop. “On purpose this time.”

“As long as it’s not a _hit_. We want this to go better than the last time.” She had been flipping casually through another one of the trashy bodice rippers that Holly liked to leave around the apartment after she visited. Holly was always peppering the flat with shitty books, shitty body spray, and just a little bit of sibling rivalry. Selina had been in slim-cut dark jeans, a sensible soft chambray button down that was half tucked, and his favorite of her large sunglasses settled back into her short curls. She'd been chewing gum and he’d bitten his lip at the absent bubble she blew before turning to the next page. "Trying to impress a certain someon-?"

"No. I want to try and tak-"

"You want to steal from Bruce Wayne." Selina had looked up at him then, a flat coy look under a perfectly arched brow.

"No. Not... steal. Borrow? Permanently?" He’d smiled, wide and guileless. "And not from Bruce."

Alfred Pennyworth had been working for Bruce Wayne since before the man had been born. He was a stiff-backed, dry-witted, perfectly pressed projection of British distrust wrapped in impeccable manners. The man had caught Jason in the kitchen the first time he'd ever been to the manor, hiding in the pantry and hadn't even blinked at the blood on Jason's knuckles, the tear tracks on his flushed cheeks, or the radiating fear and frustration. 

Selina had found him shoulder to shoulder with Tim Drake in the small library and the disappointed flush in her cheeks had him up and running before she’d said anything. He hadn’t needed to hear that she was done with him. He hadn’t heard it from his dad either. He had told himself not to be disappointed. He had been used to being alone.

"Young sir," the man had intoned, voice a warm syrupy burr that Jason had never been able to properly replicate. "Might I suggest somewhere less inclined to dry goods and more in keeping with respectable dining habits?"

"You makin' fun?" Jason had growled, frowning up at the man. "I know what that shit means. I ain't stupid."

"I would never, young sir." The man had tilted his head and opened the door slightly wider, expectant.

There had been a plate of cookies sitting on the wide marble-topped island that sat in the center of the clean kitchen. There was a glass of milk next to it and an empty chair. Jason flicked his eyes to the man, the cookies, and the man again. "You bribin’ me?"

"Simply offering an alternative activity, young sir." The man’s mustache had twitched in what Jason learned was a wry fond smile. “Payment for your name, perhaps?”

"That’s definitely a bribe." He’d sniffed, scrambling to his feet and slipping just once on the smooth hard bottoms of the fancy polished shoes before climbing into the chair and palming two cookies, tucking one into the coat pocket absently even as it looked to the world like he was eating one. 

“Possibly extortion at the most, young sir.”

Jason could still remember the perfectly caramelized crust of the cookie, the way it had a delicate crumb, just a little salty, a little sweet, with the perfect chunks of a bittersweet dark chocolate chip that stuck to his lips. They were the best chocolate chip cookies he'd ever had. "Jason. You can call me Jay. You make these?"

"Yes," the man had answered, and Jason had smiled, watching him cautiously as he reached for another. "Help yourself, Master Jason."

"Them rich people like that? You callin' them Master this and Master that? S'fucked up, you know. You ain't theirs. It's illegal to own people." Jason had sucked some chocolate off his thumb. "There's like a whole law against it and shit."

"They don't own me, Master Jason." The man had pushed the napkin across the marble top, a subtle suggestion, and Jason had felt strange about using cloth to wipe his hands. He’d considered smearing his palm over his thigh and then grimaced; the suit was borrowed and Selina had buttoned him into it. He'd already lost the stupid bowtie. He’d winced at the memory of how and reached carefully for another cookie, eyes never leaving where the man was watching him. "Would you like some ice for your hand?"

"Whatever. Didn't break nothin'." He’d paused, a sly smile breaking over his face as he palmed two more cookies with his left hand, pointing at his face with his right. "'Cept that kid's nose."

"I see," the man had hummed and Jason was grinning, defiant, at him. Alfred Pennyworth simply unfolded the napkin and wrapped the rest of the cookies for him. “Perhaps, I could suggest something a little less dramatic in the future?”

“That ain’t no fun,” Jason had mumbled, warily taking the wrapped cookies like they’d be snatched away.

The man had smiled at him then, a faint discerning look that almost felt like understanding, like kinship. Jason had liked the way it felt. He’d been trying to recreate those cookies ever since. 

He’d never gotten it right. 

“I need people to stare at _us_ , Mom.” It was a part of his plan. 

Jason glanced over his shoulder, determined as he looked at himself in the mirror. He’d been growing, shooting up to over six foot in the summer between sixteen and seventeen. He was broad shouldered and slim hipped, wiry strength that leaned towards brawn. He liked the contained power he was carefully cultivating, liked the way he looked swimming in the baggy clothes of the poor on Park Row- the oversized red hoodie marking him as different from the rest of the rich kids at his school. He wanted, no, he _needed_ to be a distraction. "There's something I need to get. You'll see."

Selina snorted and nodded once, rolling the pink bubble gum in a crackle against her teeth. Her smile was sharp. "Honey, in that? No one is going to be looking at me."

Jason smiled at his reflection as he let the tailor start taking new measurements. “Yeah?”

“Oh, Tiger,” Selina answered. She stopped calling him Kitten the year he’d outgrown her, humming up at him with narrowed eyes. “I _promise_.”

**

The car Bruce Wayne had sent for them pulled up to the red carpet that rolled towards the front doors of Wayne Manor. Jason inhaled slowly, reaching up to undo the top two buttons on his shirt, ducking his head for Selina’s fingers to card through his curls, tousling them into a sexy tangle. He looked good. The suit was perfect. He grinned, winking at her and letting the slow smile that she’d had him learn from old movies slide like the smear of sex over his face: Brando and Valentino his teachers.

“Ready?” Selina asked, a delicate hand on the side seam of her dress, pulling it enough to reveal the shocking length of thigh the slit allowed.

He leaned over, making sure he was kissing her temple when the door opened, paused in the thunderous cacophony of flashes and press. “Always.”

He got out of the car, reaching back for her as he let his eyes scan the crowd, loose and easy in his stance. He winked at where Alfred Pennyworth was standing in the doorway, crisp and formal with hands folded at the small of his back. He was sure the old man winked back. 

“It needs to be dramatic,” he’d told Selina as she fussed with him in their apartment. She was flicking over his back with the lint roller, collecting up the bits of cat hair he’d acquired between his bedroom and the front door. 

“It will be.”

“Mo-”

“Jason. You’re perfect.” She’d cupped his face and for a brief blinding moment, he believed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love getting to wander around in this universe. It's a happy place. I'll curl into Jason's leather jacket and fill the pockets with the adoration I have for people who leave comments and flailing. It's really just the greatest.


	3. a cat's rage is beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selina doesn't know any men who aren't shaped like a brick wall. Jason keeps running headfirst into them anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this continues to be my happy space.
> 
> This scene takes place in year 8. Jason is 13. Ted Grant is 54 and just as beautifully grizzled as he should be and I love him alot. (Holly would be 22.)

Selina drops the bag of groceries in the hall, running at the sound of Jason yelling followed by a crash of furniture. She's sprinting the length of the hallway, hand catching on the doorframe and spinning through the open door, acting on instinct even as she notes that there's no sign of forced entrance. She's twisting to pull the kick even as her brain registers the smell of old cigars and the kind of aftershave that comes in white porcelain bottles over green stick deodorant.

"Ted?"

"Hey," Ted Grant grumbles, hand firmly on the side of Jason's head where he was scrambling red faced and spitting mad under the older man's grizzled weight. He smiles up at her, arching an eyebrow. He's broad with salt and pepper streaking through his short hair, lighter at the temples with one cauliflower ear and a nose that had been battered into something misshapen but strikingly handsome. His hands are burled, knuckles knotted and covered in scars. 

Her living room is a disaster, one of the lamps broken with a split shade that is flickering, the delicate purple couch upended with one broken leg hanging at an awkward angle, and the carpet stained with whatever Jason had been drinking in the mug. 

"You should have called, Ted." She sighs and relaxes, setting both hands on her hips and shakes her head at them. "Kitten? This is Ted. Ted? You can let go now."

"I was doin' him a favor. Gonna break his wrist throwin' a punch like that. Telegraphs like a damn television."

"I'm sure. Did you knock or just-"

"What the _fuck_ , Selina?" Jason manages, scrambling out from Ted's hold with a scowl, pulling at his shirt, his jeans, and his hair in that order. The kid is panting, glowering dully up at where Ted is easing to his feet and dusting his palms again broad thighs. "Do you know any dudes that aren't fucking brick walls?"

"No." She and Ted answer at the same time, her answer much more lightly amused than Ted's low annoyed mutter.

"I dropped the groceries," she tells Jason, giving the boy a way to collect his anger and his self esteem. She watches him stalk out the door, stiff legged and still puffed up. 

"He's new?"

"He is." Selina sniffs, walks over to where Ted has started putting the room back together, lifting the heavy couch with one hand before hunkering down to shove the leg back into place with an easy twist of thick wrist. "What are you doing here?"

"Can't come say hi to an old friend?"

"Ted."

"Fine," he mutters. He stands and Selina is watching him, fond and warm. He's in the cheap blue jeans he buys one at a time from the local B-mart, the white packaged tank tops he can get in ten packs on sale, and a battered brown leather jacket with two pockets on the outside and a silky soft lining. He looks like every man she'd ever known that leaned into a wood topped bar and sipped their whiskey around a chewed up cigar and hopes for their particular horse in the race. He looks like home. She can see the fading blue lines of his military tattoo at the edge of his shoulder when he pats his pockets and reaches for the metal flask he's stashed inside the jacket. "I need your help."

Selina tilts her head to the fire escape before he can even reach for a cigar. "Outside."

"Right," he mutters, moving with an easy light grace to duck through the windows and out onto the metal stairs. Gotham is easing into fall, the air breaking from the incredible muggy heat of summer into something that doesn't taste thick on her tongue. Behind her, she hears Jason come back into the apartment and bitch his way to the kitchen, putting away the groceries, but she can feel him watching.

"How's Holly?" Ted asks, tucking the flask back and shaking a pack of wooden matches before his face goes orange and lit like something craggy, something immutable as a brick wall, as a cliff face, as him. 

"She's fine," Selina replies, voice a warm purr as she gives in to nostalgia and settles against his side, head on the blunt breadth of his shoulder. He smells like leather, salt, and blood. She likes it.

"Hey, Kid." She knows he's smiling against her hair, a soft gruff admiration as he curls an arm around her. "You in over your head?"

"I don't think so."

"That's a scrappy one."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

"Should I ask someone else?"

"Never. You have my help whenever. You know this." She sighs. "Spit it out, Ted."

Later, she watches Jason glower over a startlingly good plate of puttanesca at Ted, visibly bristling as the older man laughs brightly and talks around a mouthful of garlic bread. She would worry, but she's also watching the kid carefully mimic the way Ted sits, the way he reaches for his water glass, the way he holds his fork. The kid is good. 

Selina narrows her eyes and points at Ted with the tines of her fork. "I'll do it, but you have to teach Jason how to box." She nods once, smile growing sharp at the look of betrayal on Jason's face and the startled blink Ted almost manages to hide. "That's the price."

She almost laughs at the way Jason and Ted turn to size each other up, the way Jason puffs up and tries to go bigger in his baggy t-shirt. 

"We need to put some meat on this kid," Ted finally answers. It's his way of agreeing. "He's a little scrap of nothin'."

"Fuck you, old man," Jason snarls and Selina knows the moment Ted realizes he's already started. "I'm plent-"

"What do you weigh? Ninety pounds soaking wet in clothes?" Ted snorts. "I'll get you a meal plan. We'll get you muscled up. Time I'm done with you? No one will fuck with you, kid."

"He taught me," Selina interrupts the truly scathing buckshot of words she can see Jason loading. She watches the boy's eyes narrow, sizing him up with a new appreciation. "You can trust him."

"I trust you." 

Ted laughed, shaking his head and pushing the last bite of garlic bread into his mouth with a thick finger. "Then you've got good instincts. I can work with that. Now eat. Carb load. We'll start in the morning."


	4. Daft Kafka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new player on the field.
> 
> This takes place in year 13. Jason is 18 and starting college.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is hella short, but I realized the next part is entirely written in another POV so I didn't want to flop mid story. I love what-ifs and I'm grateful y'all are following me down this rabbit hole.

“You look like a bug.” It was overkill, but Jason couldn’t help the urge to be a bit dramatic, flicking the lounge chair out with a quick wrist and letting it clatter onto the rooftop. He rolled his shoulders, unzipping the jacket to let the cool night air push under the hem of his black v-neck t-shirt as he flopped down and stretched out. He kicked his booted feet up onto the lichen covered parapet and reached over to set his coffee on the flat just behind the gargoyle’s head. He left the goggles on. “Was that the goal? It seems like an odd goal.”

The new player was wearing a sleek black suit that had a mottled texture, just enough ticking to make it flat and gradient so the wearer seemed to sink into the pock marked gray stained vista of Gotham’s skyline. The person inside didn’t seem startled by his entrance and Jason sucked his teeth, digging out his paperback copy of Atwood’s selected poems (1965-1975). The figure's entire head was swallowed by what looked like a modified helmet, the face a shiny black until a line of soft golden pixels kicked up like a spike in a music line to settle and drift into what appeared to be a loading animation. It made the silhouette read implicitly as utterly bored and unimpressed.

“Okay, while that is cool,” Jason allowed. “Still look like a fucking cockroach. Isn’t the whole bug thing already like a thing in the supers community? Blue beetle or some such bullshit?”

A question mark twirled over the face before settling into a blinking cursor.

“Aw fuck. Are you one of those I’m too stoic to talk things? God damn. Does the Bat know you’re out here? ‘Cause if you steal my score, I’m going to have to throw down.”

The mask tilted and the body inside seemed to relax, turning back out to stare over the edge of the building towards the new construction bank and it’s endless mirrored office windows. They were covered head to toe, no skin showing and hands in specially designed gloves that flickered with the same gold from the helmet when they settled into an easy crouch, two fingers keeping them stable.

“Good talk, Daft Kafka."

**Author's Note:**

> Year One is the first year Bruce appears as Batman. Ages of characters at this point are as follows (hope this helps!)
> 
> Bruce 32  
> Alfred 58  
> Talia 27  
> Selina 23   
> Holly 15  
> Dick/ Roy/ Wally/ Donna/ Garth etc 11  
> Babs 15  
> Jason/Cass 6  
> Steph 4  
> Tim 3  
> Ted Grant 47  
> (Damian... does not exist yet) He is 10 in year 18
> 
> This story now has art! (watch me slowly implode with giddiness like an undercooked souffle!) by the irrepressibly cool and delightful @hamjay! [Go give them love.](https://hamjay.tumblr.com/post/631011837179248640/show-chapter-archive)
> 
> I make pterodactyl noises of delight about feedback. It's pretty on point.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [if I'm not out burning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25790581) by [macabrekawaii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabrekawaii/pseuds/macabrekawaii)




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